I draw in a breath, fully intended to scowl, stomp and possibly throw a full-blown hissy fit. Because it’s fucking cold and I’m hungry and tired and my feet hurt and Brian fucking knows why we’re here, the bastard. Except that when I look up at Brian, he’s got that look on his face that says he really wants to hear, which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever because he knows. And he kind of shifts on his feet and pulls me in a little closer as somebody else squishes past us, and it’s kind of half-protective and half-I’m-just-making-room, and my irritation evaporates in a puff of cold air.

Shit. It isn’t like Brian to just make conversation, but okay, whatever.

“Every year, we used to watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve,” I begin. I almost have to shout over the noise of the crowd; it’s sort of like being in Babylon, but minus the hot guys and good music and drinks. And minus the warmth. Can’t forget that. “Mom would let me have a little drink of champagne, and we’d make popcorn and marshmallow squares, and we’d watch the ball drop.”

They seemed so happy then. I mean, memories get fucked up. I am one person who definitely knows that. But I don’t think I’m skewing these ones. They were happy. Dad would sit with his arm around mom’s shoulders, and when the countdown reached one and everyone was screaming Happy New Year and I was bouncing up and down and twirling my noisemaker, he’d lean in and kiss her.

It was only when I got older that I realized that my champagne was liberally diluted with Mountain Dew, and all the musical bits of Rockin’ Eve were actually taped in September in some studio in L.A.

“The whole thing was so fake and stupid,” I tell Brian, and he nods, because of course Brian would agree with that. “But it didn’t matter, because…”

“Because?”

I wave a gloved hand at Brian’s raised eyebrow and huff out a breath and try to gather my thoughts. “Because… it was like this one little moment in time that was just… good. And all those people in Times Square, they were just one entity… in that moment it just seemed like anything was possible. I could be anything, do anything.”

I shake my head in frustration. The cold is numbing my brain or something because I am normally much more articulate than that. But I can’t really explain it, not really. It’s not so much a memory of events, though the champagne and the popcorn and all that is part of it. It’s a memory of feeling -- feeling loved, feeling happy, feeling invincible. That is what I thought I could capture by being here. That.

“So you always wanted to watch the ball drop in person,” Brian finishes.

“Yup.”

“And here we are.”

“Yup.”

I look around at the teeming crowd and wonder how close to midnight it is. It has to be close. I’d take a look at my watch, but I don’t want to pull up my sleeve. The thought of exposing any more skin to these temperatures is enough to cause me to shiver in dread.

Brian carefully maneuvers a cigarette out of his pack and tucks it between his lips. I consider warning him against trying to light it in this crowd, then decide against it. “Isn’t Dick Clark dead?” he says around the smoke.

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s signed a pact with Satan to live forever.”

“Hmm.” Brian manages to light the cigarette, but quickly figures out that the only way he can hold it is by standing with his arm straight up in the air. He frowns at the butt like it’s the cigarette’s fault before tossing it at our feet.

“You should have saved that,” I say. “We could have used it for warmth.”

Brian smirks and opens his mouth to speak, but then I guess he sees the look in my eyes or something because he bends his knees and looks into my face and rubs his gloves against my cheeks. I’m cold and tired and my feet hurt and I’m just about to admit that this whole thing was a dumb idea, that I totally should have joined Brian in Pittsburgh at the big Babylon bash, that I just want to go the fuck home.

But then there’s an announcement and the crowd stirs and the ball starts to drop and suddenly I’m counting down, Ten, Nine, Eight, yelling myself hoarse, stomping my feet in time to the countdown, Seven, Six, Five, and Brian is smiling at me and he’s counting himself, Four, Three, and Brian is pulling me into his arms, Two, One! and kissing me and his arms are strong and warm and the confetti towers boom and we are drenched in falling glitter.

“You can be anything,” Brian says into my ear, and I only hug him tighter and laugh and feel loved. Feel invincible.